I’m back in the southland today, which lends its name to the “southern belle” part of “part time southern belle.” It’s lovely to be back in the land of magnolias and creative town names– see Hoxie, Tallapoosa, and Humansville– but there’s one thing that catches my eye more than any other when I’m in Dixieland: the men’s knees. All my life, men’s knees were shrouded in mystery– or rather, fabric. Shorts that don’t graze the calf are too short for men in the midwest, where they don a look colloquially known as “aggressively straight.” But not in Alabama. Men of all shapes and sizes rock the five- inch pastel inseam, a level of immodesty in the midwest akin to a woman wearing a bikini to a sit-down restaurant. However, unlike a woman in a bikini consuming a steak, these men don’t seem to ask themselves, Am I too hefty to be wearing this?
. . .
About a week ago, someone I had recently become friends with offhandedly mentioned that a mutual acquaintance had told him she wasn’t too fond of me. She reasoned that I was a priss and a snob. At first I was upset– it’s never nice to find out that someone doesn’t like you– but then I thought it over: I already knew this. I know I’m a priss and a snob; I have known this since kindergarten. I know this because I am one of the most critical people I know. I am self-critical, mostly. However, when you’re constantly making judgements, big truths arise. I will always have to stop myself from being a little princess and I work on it– sometimes harder than other times. To have judged myself and known myself is to make myself stronger.
Yeah, that’s me, being a young snob as a Daisy at Scott Magnet school. I like to look nice. I like nice things. I once owned a Juicy Couture jumpsuit. I wear glitter eyeshadow to work. That’s the vibe I give off. It’s not my only trait, but it is true.
. . .
I think many of us have grown to believe the fallacy that to love ourselves we must believe we are perfect as we are. Which is crazy. We don’t believe our friends or families are perfect and we love them still; to say it should be different with ourselves is to be overly defensive. I could enumerate an extensive list of my own flaws, but you were to ask me if I like myself, the answer would always be yes. I want to get better in every aspect, but like the southern men in their short shorts, I believe that I am good enough, cool enough, deserving enough to do what I please. To love yourself is not to give up on any self-improvement: it is very much the opposite. To love yourself is to recognize yourself as human and fallible, and to aspire to be the best silly, flawed human you can be, with the awareness that our time on Earth is both long enough to change and fleeting enough to be forgotten. We will never accept ourselves as totally perfect; we aren’t. It’s cool. It’s fine. We can work on it a little.
Take a Buzzfeed quiz today. Find out what Starbucks drink you are and then accept it and move towards self love because whatever it told you, you probably already knew. I’m a snob and a typical white girl, but I’m also fiercely loyal. I’m ok with that.
Love,
A Pumpkin Spice Latte
anything for a joke 